Something Rich And Strange
by Blue Maple
Summary: Bruce retreats to Fiji (and the islands within himself) in the aftermath of AOU, and attempts to discover the secrets and mysteries behind a gift secretly stowed for him on the QuinJet. Reviews greatly appreciated. They make me feel loved AND incite productivity.
1. Beached

_Full fathom five thy father lies  
Of his bones are coral made…_

The man, small, salted, and undeniably poached, lies naked on the sand, the waves nibbling at his bruised flesh and memories as he recovers his strength and recites the familiar lines in his head.

 _Those are pearls that were his eyes;  
Nothing of him that doth fade…_

Behind his eyes ( _the algaed pearls of his eyes_ ) a headache lingers. He does not ignore the pain, rather embraces it - not because he feels that he deserves it, but because, when it comes down to it, his last few weeks have not exactly been an exercise in neutrality, self-imposed or otherwise, and headaches are supremely and cruelly unconcerned on such mundane and subjective things as 'blame'. It makes a refreshing change.

 _But doth suffer a sea-change  
Into something rich and strange…_

Bruce Banner opens his eyes, and closes them again. No images from the brief interlude process. The waves wash over him. In the distance, the rattle of a motor sounds. He ignores it. Eventually, it goes away.

Eventually again, he drags himself to a sitting position. A scrap of royal purple cloth, caught under his hip and protected from the tide, catches his eye. He pulls it out from under himself and pushes himself to his knees, wrapping it around his narrow, aching hips and tying it off.

The last of the headache recedes with the next round of waves. Banner looks down at himself and literally watches the last of his bruises fade. Purple to green to yellow toolive. When they are all gone, and the aches in his muscles with them, he rises to his feet and starts to walk in slowly widening circles, keeping an eye on the sand.

It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for. Less than two hundred feet away lie an even half-dozen small metal cylinders, half-buried by a tide pool and attached by welded metal clips to the sodden, ripped out seatbelt that he'd torn from the QuinJet pilot's seat and strapped to his thigh. It had come off of course, once he'd changed back, and the waves had tossed further up the beach… Banner squats and tugs and digs, unscrewing the top of the first cylinder. Inside, in carefully sealed, airtight packages, are several thick wads of bank notes. Inside the second and third are several more. From the fourth, he pulls out, not just sealed (he presumes) local currency, but a tiny sealed USB stick. He turns it over in his fingers.

Some Enhanced Individuals he reflects, are made… Some are bred. Others… Not many, but a few… Are simply born. Not many of any variety have the ability, or prudence to keep their mouths shut and their talents strictly to themselves for use-of-in-case-of-friends'-personal-emergencies. He puts the USB stick back in the container and opens the fifth cylinder. It contains papers and a plain black phone. The sixth… He turns it over. The bottle of whiskey is sealed, and wrapped in a torn page of a book. He turns the page over and reads the printed words there.

 _ **THE LAST BATTLE**_

 _ **C.S. LEWIS**_

Below, penciled lightly in a familiar scrawl are a few, unsigned, handwritten words.

 _ **Come unto these yellow sands,  
And then take hands:  
Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd  
The wild waves whist,  
Foot it featly here and there;  
And, sweet sprite, the burthen bear.  
Hark, hark!  
Bow-wow.  
The watch-dogs bark….  
**_

_**Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.**_

 _ **Nobody's home.**_

Banner examines the page one last time, and the phone again. There is no power button charger port – no buttons or ports of any kind, and the device is all of a piece. No seam of any kind. It might as well be a lump of plastic.

He stuffs the phone back in the cylinder, straps the belt around his waist, and heads up the beach again. Several miles up, he spots a small house: awkward, wooden and thatched. It appears to be deserted. He glances at the note in his hand again.

 _Nobody's home._

Nick Fury, he reflects, would piss himself – no, _shit_ himself - if he knew what he has on staff in Fallon Ichloss – and how, exactly and when it comes right down to it, Ichloss defines his role as SHIELD's mild-mannered Head of Accounting.

 **Why haven't you ever told anyone?** _ **he'd asked one night when they'd been kicking back over a shared pitcher.**_ _ **Banner doesn't generally socialize with his co-workers, but the other man has a way about him. Or maybe it was just that Ichloss' lover was broken along with Harlem, and while the Abomination had done the actual dirty work before the Big Guy had ever arrived on the scene, he'd felt more than guilty enough to feel obliged to accept the first invitation.**_

 _ **He hadn't had much choice in accepting the ones that followed either… For some weird reason, the Big Guy had decided that he**_ **liked** _ **Ichloss. The novelty of actually agreeing on something had kept them both coming back, and, as it turned out, Ichloss was more than skilled enough at small-talk to keep them both entertained. "**_ **The ability to see the future…"**

" **I don't see the future,"** _ **Ichloss had said patiently**_ **. "I see very specific points in time, and even more specific situations, where certain very specific people will need help. Sometimes they're important people. Sometimes they're not. Sometimes you change a moment in a life, sometimes you change the life altogether. I never know which it will be, and in most cases, I'll probably never know… But if I can help … I do. My way of squaring things, in this gaping round cornhole of a world."**

" **Do you think you've ever changed the world with anything you've done?"**

" **No idea."**

" **Liar."** _ **That**_ **had come straight from the Big Guy.**

 _ **Fallon Ichloss had lowered his bottle and examined him. Them. He is a big man, bigger than Steve, raw-boned, grey-haired and pale, with slightly protuberant eyes that bulge, perhaps, with the bit of extra that he claims to be able to see.**_

 **Everything changes everything,** _ **he said.**_ **Every day. There's no such thing as an action that doesn't affect anything. I just funnel a bit of karmic spare change to those who need it, when I see – or am shown - the need.**

" **Have you ever…"** _ **Banner stopped in his tracks abruptly, remembering Ichloss' job before he transferred into Accounting. Heads of SHIELD'S Ninjas Anonymous, Natasha told him once, have a fairly predictably short shelf life. Ninjas, after all, only work with their particular client lists. The Heads are the ones who get to do the original and specific research on why the clients should be honored with a place on those lists in the first place…**_ **"Oh.** _ **Oh**_ **."**

" **Oh,"** _ **Ichloss had agreed.**_ **"Nother beer?"**

Banner circles the house one more time, and approaches the front door... Short minutes later, he is clad in a pair of plain shorts and shirt, has appropriated a pair of battered sandals from the porch, and has dropped a bill or three in the empty sugar bowl on the crated table to pay for his 'purchases.' He examines the belt and the cylinders again, retrieves a pillowcase off the line, stuffs everything inside, and feeling only slightly less conspicuous, picks a direction at random, and heads off to find whatever, in Fiji, passes for breakfast.


	2. Bemused

Banner sits cross-legged on the bed in the tiny thatched _bure_ , and examines the papers spread before him. They are comprehensive. They include a passport (Australian) in the name of one Ram Bhotra, born in Delhi and currently a resident of Canberra, and visas of several useful varieties. There is an international driver's and a small-plane pilot's licence, proof of medical graduation from a reasonably, but not overly prestigious university (again in Australia), letters certifying permission to practice on various islands across the South Pacific, and an envelope containing a pair of folded maps, with yesterday's date and a circled location and arrow beside tiny letters reading ' _You are here'_.

When Ichloss had said specific points in time, Banner thinks, he'd meant _specific_. He examines the item in his hand, not paper, but slender enough to be folded among them: a plastic case containing six (now five) pairs of colored contact lenses and several alcoholic hand-wipes.

He puts the map down, unfolds his legs, and slides to his feet, padding across the floor to the screen door. His _bure_ is one in a chain of free-standing 'rooms' in a meandering ocean-side motel that relies heavily on the local geography and geology for its charms rather than the fiscal efforts of the owners; it is clean, but quintessentially basic, and, too, as Pepper would say, strictly BYOPC – 'bring your own pina coladas'. Fortunately, there is a village not far away, so food, at least, is more-or-less readily available.

Outside is parked, not a car, but a motor scooter and side-car He'd bought it, not rented it, from a dealer in the larger town he'd found twenty two hours earlier. His hike up from the beach where he'd washed ashore had led him to a road and a hitched fare on a flat-bed truck carrying a half-dozen sleepy locals, and, eventually, to a ferry crossing. He'd hopped down with the rest of his fellow-passengers, examined his options (of which there did not seemed to be many) and finally, as per Ichloss' quoted advice, flitted it fleetly to where the waves had carried him: here, there and shortly to another, much larger island and a fantastically smelly and crowded mini-bus. The mini-bus, in turn, had carried him to, unsurprisingly, the second unpronounceable town circled on the map back on the bed. He'd stood at the station and plucked the last item Ichloss had left him among the papers – a key to a local secured storage locker – out of his pocket – and examined it in in bemusement before shrugging his shoulders and heading off to find out what treasures awaited him.

Said treasures had consisted, when he'd found them, of a single large, battered suitcase and a laptop bag. The suitcase contains clothes and an old-fashioned medical bag, stuffed full of decidedly not-old-fashioned medical supplies and more never-out-of-fashion cash. The laptop bag contains the obvious.

Fingering now a hefty roll of spare change in his pocket, Banner wonders for the first time where Ichloss _got_ all that money. Together with what was in the cylinders, it's enough to keep him comfortable for literal years. It would be next to impossible just reroute that kind of cash from SHIELD accounts; the security system there is nigh-on unhackable, thanks to Phil Coulson and one very, very discreet friend-of-a-friend named JARVIS. Coulson, of course, has gone where good Coulsons go, but a favor is a favor in JARVIS' eyes, and he doesn't (or hadn't) seen death as a reason to break his deal, as he'd informed an extremely annoyed Fury. The conversation, there, as Agent Hill had relayed to the Avengers, had had them all in stitches: Fury had told JARVIS to hand over Coulson's override codes so that Team Ichloss might re-allocate funds from account to account in the aftermath of the Chitauri Invasion. JARVIS had declined pleasantly, stating he needed Coulson's personal approval. Fury had informed him that that would, for _obvious_ reasons, not be forthcoming, and JARVIS had told him (quite snidely too, Hill had said), that **a deal was a deal, as an eye was for an eye** (for some reason, a visiting Sif had nearly broken something laughing at that one), and that Fury could, 'quote-unquote', **go to Tahiti.**

"Oh he did not," Tony had said, as they all howled. "JARVIS?'

 **I did** , JARVIS had confirmed. Banner had practically been able to see him propping his virtual feet up and sipping from a virtual rum-and-coke. **I do not like him.**

"You don't?' Steve had asked with interest. "How does that work, exactly? Do you have emotions, then?'

 **I have no idea** , JARVIS had said. **I do, however, have a well-developed sense of protocol, and find the idea of violating an established line of authority simply for personal convenience, rather than pre-arranged necessity, inherently problematic.**

"So you're saying that Phil didn't leave anyone else with his override sequence?' Pepper frowned. "That doesn't sound like him at all."

 **He left it with me** , JARVIS had said. **Along with his will, and myself as de-facto executor of his estate. Fury does not accept my authority there; he in fact, told me that I do not 'count' because I am not legally human, and demanded that I surrender my authority in all instances. He did not even ask me for my – which in this instance stands in for Agent Coulson's –** _ **opinion.**_ **He did not even,** and it sounded decidedly and humanly indignant and self-righteous **– say** _ **please**_ **.**

"I never say please,"Tony pointed out **.** "To anyone."

"That is not exactly something to be proud of, Man of Iron," Thor had said dryly. "And you are forgetting to take into account that Friend JARVIS is, in many ways, of your family. All beings are fools when it comes to tolerating the quirks of our family members."

"Drat. Foibled again," Steve had said, and as everyone looked at him… "What? It was a pun. You still have puns in this time, right?'

 **It is as I said. Legal or not, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Ten-tenths, in this instance –and I may be an Artificial Intelligent, but it is as I told him… That in no way means that my intelligence is artificial.**

"So in other words, you're just going to let him sweat awhile?' Natasha had asked. "And ooh, can you set up a spy cam so we can watch?'

 **No. I am not a spy. As for the sweating… Tahiti is quite humid this time of year. I could not prevent him from overriding Agent Coulson's wishes and acquiring authority on certain matters in his will, but this… This much I can do. And will.**

Back in the present, another potential answer hits Banner as he unseals the USB key, and he immediately knows it's the right one.

 _Harlem. Ichloss' lover._

Nick Fury may be a dick, but under certain, if reluctant, circumstances, he's a generous dick. And he'd _owed_ Ichloss. Hawkeye and Natasha hadn't just been kept busy when Ichloss had run the Ninja Core; Nat had actually been in danger of running out of stilettos, and Hawkeye's yearly arrow budget had been exhausted in the first six weeks.

The spousal life insurance payout must have been _huge_. Enough to keep Ichloss in the unsupported black for literal years.

 _How long did his vision tell him that I'd be expected to stay here, exactly?_

He pushes the thought aside and, returning to the bed pulls the laptop over. There is no identifying brand name on it, nor is there a cord. He presses the power button. Nothing. He plugs the USB stick into the side, and presses the power button. The screen flares to life obligingly. The sound kicks in one moment before the visuals do.

"For God's sake, Fal," a sleepy voice says. It is eminently annoyed, and eminently familiar. "I know you work outside time for the most part, but still. Not all of us are so blessed, even with yon alien yellow sands running through our veins. It's three o' clock in the _morning_ here!"

Bruce Banner's heart nearly stops.

"Coulson?' he breathes in disbelief. "You're … You're _alive_?'

The bleary eyes peering at him from the screen shed their blear as fast as the Other Guy sheds his shorts when the proverbial sun goes down. The mild-mannered round face splits into a wide grin.

"Bruce!" Coulson hails. "Finally! It's been seventy six hours since you crashed the QuinJet, man; we were beginning to worry!"

"What?" Banner says, clutching his tousled black hair. "Whatwhat… _What_?" The Big Guy, staggering and wide awake under the onslaught of his emotions, none precisely green, roars plaintively in confusion. 'You're dead!"

"Was dead," Coulson corrects. "Heaven, or hell – take your pick there - as it turns out, bears a remarkable resemblance to Tahiti. I don't recommend it, for the record. How is Fiji?'

"You're in Tahi…" His eyes widen. " _Fal_? As in Fallon Ichloss? And _JARVIS_? But… JARVIS is _gone_! He's Vision now! What _is_ this?" His nails, he notes, as he pulls them from his head by force of will, are tinting a lovely vermilion… He crushes back his emotions ruthlessly. The Big Guy, for once, goes peacefully, and tries to hide under the psychological bed they share in his confusion. Banner can still see him, obviously, but as the Big Guy is covering his eyes, they can pretend, at least, that he doesn't. "Wait, wait… You're alive? Does Fury know about…" He trails off. "Oh. _Oh_."

"It's a long story," Coulson admits. "JARVIS, secure the line till I get some coffee going, would you?"

 **Of course, Agent Coulson,** JARVIS – _not_ Vision; that's definitely, _definitely_ JARVIS - says. The Big Guy whimpers and bites on a pillow in his distress. Bruce tries to clear his head of the resulting feathers, and fails miserably.

"I'm confused," he says plaintively. "What is going _on_?"

"War," Coulson says grimly. "On all fronts. Up, down, in, out, back, through… You name it. Welcome to the Watchdogs, Agent Banner."

The Other Guy spits out the pillow and sits up abruptly, shedding the bed and blankets and perking, bright-eyed. Bruce promptly swats him back with their teddy bear.

" _Bure_ means 'sanctuary'," he snaps, and… "Whatever happened to saying ' _please_?'" Then… "Is Fury in on this?'

"He is," Coulson says. "If by 'in on it,' you mean 'in on his own ass, head-first.' The Infinity Formula may be good for his complexion, but it does absolutely nothing for his sense of proper temporal priority.'

"Oh." Banner sits down. "Okay. That makes me feel better." He stands up again. "Okay. You go get your coffee, and I'll go put on a pot of stewed palm leaves or something. I haven't been to the store yet..."

"


End file.
